


Notes from a Boston Marriage

by Geonn



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Diary/Journal, F/F, Fantasy, Hero Worship, Masturbation, Romance, Secret Relationship, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-18 12:51:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3570347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Geonn/pseuds/Geonn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma relaxes at home with a secret journal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Notes from a Boston Marriage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



Everything neat and tidy and perfectly in its place. Jemma took a few minutes upon arrival making sure her apartment was as it should be before she allowed herself to settle. The repurposed SHIELD was an amazing opportunity. She loved how she never knew where they would be jetting off to next. But she truly hated being away from home so much. Home was where she recharged and filed away everything that happened over the course of the day. It was her quiet sanctuary and she missed it when she was away, even if the reason she was away was spectacularly amazing.

Jemma took a long bath and changed into her pajamas in order to make herself some tea. When it was ready she took it into her bedroom. She had a secret, an artifact that hadn’t made the switch over to digital because it was marked “Private.” A small leather-bound book with thin yellow pages covered with gentle stripes of cursive. It was listed as a journal, a diary, and a booklet, and its vague identity had led to it nearly becoming lost in the depths of SHIELD bureaucracy. She was the one who noted its importance, she was the one who had saved it from being filed into oblivion, and she knew that she should turn it in. Someone official should have it. It belonged in a museum.

Then she actually read some of the entries and knew why it could never see the light of day. Not because it was bad or shameful, but because it was nobody’s damned business. Her altruistic reasoning was marred by the fact she regularly read excerpts from the journal, but she justified it by telling herself it was a story that deserved to be heard. She curled up in bed and turned her body toward the lamp so its light would fall onto the page. The rest of her apartment was quiet and still, and she could almost feel herself being propelled back in time as she read the familiar dedication on the first page.

“English,

Yours will probably be the only eyes that ever see this book. They’re the only eyes that matter anyway. 

A.M.”

The rest of the journal revealed that the A.M. stood for Angie Martinelli, an actress who made quite a name for herself in the cinema. Jemma had tracked down the first Captain America movie, a ridiculous and silly dramatization released in the early fifties. The movie was awful, but Angie was sublime. All the camera had to do was linger on her face and the emotion of the scene would be locked in. Angie was a true star.

Jemma knew the broad strokes of the story already. It began by detailing Peggy Carter’s first big mission for the SSR, clearing Howard Stark’s name of treason charges, obviously relaying a second-hand account. “Phone company, huh?” Angie wrote. “That never rang true for me (pardon the pun). I knew you were up to something different, something meaningful. I could tell from the way you carried yourself. The other girls at Griffith, their jobs were nine to five grinds. You could tell they were just making a buck. But what you were doing mattered. I wish you hadn’t kept the truth from me for so long so I could’ve been impressed with you the whole time.”

She flipped ahead to the point where Howard Stark - Iron Man’s father! - rewarded Peggy for clearing his name by giving her a house. Jemma rested her fingers on the words Angie had written decades earlier.

“I wish I could say this to your face, but it ain’t something I’m good at. I’m just sitting here waiting five, ten minutes between each word waiting for the next one to show up. I’d get all sweaty and flustered and you don’t need to say that. I already said thank you all the ways I know how. I made you dinner, and I offered to do your laundry indefinitely. It was the least I could do. I mean, a house, Peg! You got a house, and you let me move into it with you. I had to do something to make up for it. But I’ll never forget the way you took the laundry hamper from me and said, ‘I wanted a roommate and a friend. Not a maid, nor a housekeeper.’

God, English, that accent of yours. You even make it sound great when you’re scolding me. I could listen to you all day. And now I can! At least when we’re both home from work. I can hear you sometimes through the wall hummin’ to yourself. I wish I could tell you how much I loved that sound, but... you know what I said earlier. The shakes. The sweats. Embarrassing.”

Jemma tried to imagine what it was like living with Peggy Carter and felt sympathy for Angie. She had a hard enough time trying to act calm and collected around Agent May. Maybe it was because she saw May as more of a colleague, even though she’d done just as many amazing things as Peggy Carter. Or maybe it was because the journal made Peggy more of a real person. May wasn’t exactly an open book, but thanks to Angie, Jemma could easily imagine Peggy sitting in a quiet den to mend her stockings or puttering around a kitchen making the perfect spot of tea.

That was it. May was too removed, too distant to be fawned over. Peggy Carter was human, flawed, eminently capable, and above it all... British. She couldn’t deny a bit of pride there. Captain America had been as successful as he was because of Peggy Carter, who fought for King and Country. She also liked how Angie called Peggy “English.” Surely she would have had that swaggerful New Yawk twang when she spoke, that self-assured bravado that would make the nickname sound cruel from someone else. But Angie looked sweet enough to pull it off.

Speaking of looking sweet, Jemma flipped to the back cover. The photograph was sepia-tone and creased along the horizontal and vertical axes from multiple foldings. She imaged it had spent a lot of time hidden away in pockets, tucked into books, hidden from sight and only taken out in private moments. It was a time when Peggy could have been kicked out of SSR for even a hint of “deviant behavior.” The photo was completely innocent, just two women on a New York street. Peggy was seated on the fat curve of some sort of vehicle - Jemma knew it was a car, but couldn’t be specific beyond that - and Angie was leaning against its side. Peggy had one arm around Angie’s shoulders, and Angie was staring straight ahead into the camera with a smile so wide it nearly cracked her face. They were both dressed in casual, summery clothes. Peggy’s hair was down, and Angie’s feet were crossed at the ankles with her arms crossed over her chest.

The actual photograph was completely innocent. There was nothing untoward or scandalous about their poses. And yet they felt it necessary to keep the picture hidden. She looked at the picture and tried to determine when it had been taken, then flipped back to the middle of the diary. Peggy and Angie were already living together, with Peggy continuing her work with the SSR and Angie working on her first movie. 

“I owe it all to you, English. I would’ve died in that automat, a bitter old woman getting starry-eyed and wondering what might have been if only I’d been brave enough. But that night when you told me about everything you’d done... Captain America! Russia! Dottie Underwood! I knew that I didn’t have any excuse to be afraid. No one was going to shoot at me, for crying out loud. So what if some fat Hollywood mook laughed me out of the room? At least I could say I tried. I walked in with my head held high and I tried. I remembered what you said that one night when we stayed up until three in the morning: ‘That’s all failure is, Angie,’ you said. ‘It’s the residue of trying.’

“Who’d’ve thunk I would get my first role right out of the gate? I’d been on auditions before. I’d seen them go for the younger or blonder or prettier girl. So what was different? Confidence, Peggy. I was living in a home owned by Howard Stark and my roommate had saved the world how many times? If you believed I could do it, then they’d be idiots for disagreeing. That was the attitude I walked in with. I can’t thank you enough, Peggy.”

Jemma smiled when she thought about the late-night talks. Peggy and Angie in their slips, sitting on the floor in front of the divan with a fire going. She closed her eyes and pictured Peggy reaching out to touch Angie’s cheek. Perhaps she would brush away a curl of hair and their eyes would lock. And the fire would reflect in their eyes, making the color dance. And then Peggy would lean in - Angie would never have made the first movie. And then Peggy would lean in - Angie would keep her eyes open just so she could make sure what was happening. And then Peggy would... lean... in...

“Oh,” Jemma gasped, her eyes snapping open as she flattened her hand on the page. She looked down at Angie’s words, then closed the journal and put it aside. There were other passages later on (“Sometimes you talk in your sleep, and I watch you as if there was something I could do about whatever is worrying you. I can just hold your hand and wait until you’re still again. Sometimes I wonder if you’re even safe in your dreams”) that confirm without question that Angie and Peggy were lovers. But those earlier entries, the ones that skim the edge without giving anything away, those were the ones that always made her heart beat harder.

Jemma got out of bed and went into her ensuite. She ran the water cold over both hands, splashed it onto her face, and looked in the mirror. She sometimes felt like a very distant relative of Peggy Carter. She too led a secret life of danger and intrigue. She was British. She was... brunette. Her boss had worked with Captain America, though she personally had never met the man. She wondered what it would be like to have someone waiting at home for her. Someone who knew what she was going through and wanted to help. Even if Jemma couldn’t share the details, her partner would be there for whatever comfort she required.

She imagined Angie Martinelli standing her in the bathroom door. “Hey, English.” Her hands sliding around Jemma’s hips, pressing against her from behind. She slid her hands up under her pajama top and kissed the back of her neck. Jemma sighed and trailed her fingers down her neck, eyes closed as she imagined it. Peggy Carter, international woman of espionage, deserved a soft touch at the end of the day. She liked to imagine Angie had provided it.

“Rough day, Peg?” Angie whispered before kissing Jemma just below her ear.

“No worse than usual...” Jemma replied, taking on her hero’s persona.

“Well, normal is still pretty bad. Let me take care of it.”

Jemma smiled. “If you insist...”

She hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her pajamas and pushed them down. When she cupped herself, she arched her back to push against Angie’s hips. Even though no one was there, she could almost feel the other woman pressing back against her. Jemma bit her bottom lip. In her mind’s eye she saw Peggy Carter, half-naked, with another woman’s hand between her legs. The mental image alone was almost enough to make her come.

Her middle two fingers were still wet from splashing her face, so they slipped easily inside of her. She braced herself against the sink with the other. She could perfectly see Angie and Peggy in the same position, Peggy moving her hand down to guide Angie’s. Both of them gasping, looking into the mirror to see each other as they fucked... Jemma whimpered. She could only imagine undoing the buttons of Peggy’s prim and proper pajamas to bury her face in those glorious breasts. And Angie, oh... oh, Angie, with those dark eyes looking up at her as her tongue pushed deep inside. Jemma squirmed as she imagined sucking on Peggy’s nipple while her hand was flat on the back of Angie’s head, both of them twisting her until... until...

She cried out wordlessly rather than choosing a name to say, folding in on herself and pinning her hand between her thighs. She sagged forward with her elbows on the edge of her sink, catching her breath before sheepishly tugging her underwear and pajamas back into place. Her face was red hot, and she chuckled shyly to herself as she splashed water on it again. It wasn’t the first time she’d fantasized about Peggy and Angie, but somehow every time felt as taboo as the first.

Jemma turned off the lights and went back to bed. She picked up the journal and started to set it aside, but just for fun she flipped back to one of the most visited entries. She tucked herself in and touched one dry fingertip to the words.

“If I’d known how badly I wanted and needed that, there’s no way I could have waited this long. I can’t talk about it, even if I had the words. I’m looking at you right now and I can’t stop smiling. Thank you. You know what you did. Thank you, English. Peggy. Margaret.”

Jemma smiled and rubbed a knuckle under her eye to fight off the tears threatening to fall free. “Goodnight, Angie. Goodnight, Peggy.” She closed the journal, brought it to her face so she could smell the leather, then tucked it safely into the bottom drawer of her nightstand. SHIELD would be livid if they knew she had it, but they’d had it for over fifty years and nearly lose the bloody thing. At least in her possession, Peggy and Angie’s secret would finally be known. It had been hidden away like something shameful for far too long. It was high time someone knew how much they loved one another, even if it was just one woman.

Jemma turned off the lamp and rolled over, hugging her pillow as she dreamed about actresses, secret agents, and big empty houses with lots of rooms in which to make mischief.


End file.
